


Warming

by RedThreat



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:05:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13171356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedThreat/pseuds/RedThreat
Summary: Two years. Two Christmas Days. Two Undertakers.





	Warming

The cold clawed at his clothes, wanting to touch his body and seep into his skin. He did not mind.

Snow was falling, limiting his vision and bringing coldness with it; it covered the world and his clothes in white and tangled in his hair, partially melting. Most would be freezing at this temperature; many wearing clothes as thin as his might believe to die in movement at any given moment – but if you were already dead and especially if you were dead for as long as he was, you learned not to mind the cold anymore.

Or, at least, if you were dead but not quite as he was – an oddity in-between life and death, pending and waiting. Punished. Restless. Hopeless.

Not shivering, the not-quite-dead man with the peculiar top hat and the mortician’s clothes walked through the streets of London, his breath freezing into clouds before his face. All around him, even the poorest, even the saddest were in a festive mood as it was the first day of Christmas.

He glanced at the sparse decoration here and there but never stopped or slowed his pace. It was Christmas Day but there was never any rest for the living, the dead, and those in-between. Not even today.

He took out his key when he arrived at his funeral parlour, but when he wanted to unlock the door he noticed that it was already open. Cautious, he entered his shop and home – and stepped from coldness and the white and grey of winter and snow into warmth and colours, bright and brilliant.

His funeral parlour, usually dimly lit and filled with coffins and pieces and things unappetising, was shining and all was covered with lametta and baubles, figurines and paper stars.

And in-between this colourful explosion sat a young woman on a chair – her dress red and green, her hair in braids and waves, and her dark eyes full of intelligence and scheme.

Many months had passed since Countess Cloudia Phantomhive had first entered his little parlour – and, ever since, she had never stopped coming. And annoyed at first, he had grown fond of her – of this short girl with the gentle looks and sharp tongue.

She beamed at him when he entered and the door fell closed behind him. He was not sure if she was either delighted to see him or amused by the dumbfounded look on his face or both.

“Undertaker, welcome,” Cloudia said, standing up. “I hope you do not mind that I was so free to redecorate the parlour a little bit here and there. Spider webs, mostly melted candles, and dusty skulls are definitely not in season anymore – and I doubt that they ever were.”

Undertaker grabbed a bauble which hung from one of the diagonal coffins. It was blue and red and so shiny that he could see an oddly reflected version of himself in it. Amused, he twisted it in his fingers. “Are you still mad that I mucked around with you during the last case?”

She slightly raised one of her eyebrows. “I just wanted to be a good friend and citizen by giving you a spontaneous redecoration for Christmas. After all, Christmas is all about giving.”

“And taking, I assume?” he replied, not taking his eyes off the Christmas bulb – but the smile which hushed over his lips was not directed at it but at her.

“What are you talking about?” Cloudia said in theatrical mock, and even without looking up, Undertaker knew that she was walking towards him. “It is about giving and not taking – it is a game of giving _and_ taking for every other day in the year _but_ Christmas, Undertaker! But if you give me something for I have already given something to you…”

“That’s still taking.”

“It’s called _receiving_ , Undertaker. ‘Taking’ sounds like I am using force to get something from you – which I am not. I am just talking about the spirit of Christmas and presents and giving and goodwill. If I was to forcefully take something from you, for example, your top hat I’ve taken a hypothetical like for, I would have already jumped at you, stolen it, and run away with it through the night and all the way to the townhouse. My shoes are wonderful and I am a skilled runner. And, most importantly, my corset is not suffocating me. You should think of ways to protect your hat or, one day, I might go and turn my hypothetical plan into reality – or, perhaps, I am only saying all this to make you live in fear for your hat?” Cloudia did not stop smiling while speaking, and when she was done, she sat down on a coffin covered in lametta. Except for her colouring, Cloudia Phantomhive was an English Rose in every way – at least, if you did not let her speak freely and honestly or met her in an alleyway at night.

But then, every rose had its thorns – and while many made sure to have them removed, Undertaker loved them as much as the blossom.

“Very well,” said Undertaker, taking his eyes off the ball and directing them at Cloudia. “What should I give you? What do you want to ‘receive’ from me?”

A bright grin illuminated her face. “A laugh and a smile.”

Usually, she was the one who came to him for information, but in the rare instances when their positions were switched, she always ever demanded a laugh and a smile. One day, he had asked her why, and she had replied: “Because you make me laugh the best and easiest.”

And he had been glad that their feelings were mutual.

“But you are already grinning,” Undertaker replied, and immediately, the grin vanished from Cloudia’s face.

“What are you talking about? I am not grinning,” she said, her face expressionless and her voice eerily neutral.

Undertaker took off his wet hat and put it away from Cloudia. Then, he leaned towards her and brushed his lips against hers. He could feel her smiling against his lips, and then, she pulled him down a bit to kiss him properly.

“And… and what about my laugh?” Cloudia wanted to know when they broke apart, still smiling and cheeks flushed. But before Undertaker could collect his thoughts and say something, Cloudia darted forward and snatched his hat and put it on herself, sinking back down onto the coffin.

“How do I look?” she asked, her face serious except for her eyes which were bright and shimmering. The head looked odd in combination with her colourful clothes and was too large for her small head. Undertaker laughed and his laughter rang through the parlour.

Cloudia smiled, bright and warm. “There it is,” she said gently before joining him.

 

 

***

 

 

The cold was biting its way through the streets, touching everything as it passed by.

The snow scrunched beneath his boots while he took an additional round around his neighbourhood. It was cold, it was freezing but he was indifferent towards the icy fingers of the wind and in no hurry to return home. But after hours and hours of wandering with no aim, his treacherous feet brought him to the parlour.

Slowly, Undertaker opened the door and closed his eyes – imagining, awaiting his parlour covered in lametta and decorated with angels and baubles and filled with warmth and the smell of cinnamon like it had been every Christmas Day for the past years – and he allowed himself to smile. But the sound of the closing door tore him out of his thoughts and his eyes fluttered open to meet the bleak darkness and dust silently swirling through the air.

His smile vanished from his lips as if it had never been there and, for the first time in so long, the dead man was touched and embraced by the cold.


End file.
